The One
by A Summers
Summary: George Weasley has too much on his mind.  The business he runs, the woman he wants, the responsibilities of being a Weasley, and the constant nagging from the most implausible member of his family. Can he pull through, or will insanity take hold?


Disclaimer: I do not own any parts of the Harry Potter books or movies, nor the characters within; they are the sole property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bro., and I thank them both for a job well done.

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The One

By: A Summers

"Tell me again why I let you talk me into this," said George Weasley, red-faced from the heat. He had muttered the words "Winggardium Leviosa," and watched as a large size swimming pool float up through the air toward the recently cut patch in the center of the backyard. His foot slipped on the grass, wet from the pool spilling over its edges, and he could feel sweat pouring from his forehead into the corners of his eyes, making them sting. It was hot, far too hot for mid-August. Too damn hot for this, that's for sure. Even a garden gnome had the good sense to watch from a shaded spot, panting with his tongue hanging out for the first opportunity to sample the swimming pool.

Fred Weasley, who walked alongside the portable pool, shrugged. "Because you agreed it would be fun," he said. He pointed a finger at the chosen spot. "Lower it here," he went on, "but at the rate you're moving we can kiss all the fun good-bye."

"This is so ridiculous," said George, his wand arm feeling the strain of work, thinking what they really needed was a team of wizards and witches. His arm was killing him. For a moment, he visualized his other ear blowing off the side of his head from the heat, shooting across the freshly mowed grass like the fire rockets he and Fred used to launch.

"You've already said that."

"And it isn't fun," George grunted.

"You said that, too."

"And it isn't going to be easy."

"Sure it was," said Fred. He pointed to the lettering on the box. "See? It says right here, 'Easy to Install.'" And from his spot beneath a shady tree, the gnome clapped his hands and jumped in delight.

Fred smiled, looking way too pleased with his quick wit.

George scowled. "That's not what I meant." He hated that look. Well, not always, most of the time he enjoyed his brother's boundless wit and enthusiasm; his endless search for fun. But not today. Definitely not today.

George reached for the handkerchief in his rear pocket. It was soaked with sweat, which had of course done wonders at making a huge wet spot in the seat of his pants. He wiped his face and wrung the handkerchief with a quick twist. Sweat dribbled from it like a leaky faucet onto the top of his shoes. He stared at it almost hypnotically, before it evaporated, giving his shoes a bit of a shine. Oh, that was just dandy, wasn't it?

"As I recall, you said Ron, Bill, and Harry would be here to help us with this 'little project', and that Ginny, Fleur, and Hermione would help cook and we'd have butterbeer, and that—oh yeah, installing this muggle contraption should only take a couple of minutes at the most."

"They're coming," said Fred. "Did you remember to get the wildfire whiz-bangs?"

"You said that an hour ago, and yes, there's five boxes in the cellar."

"They _will_ come. I hope you remembered the strawberry ice cream."

"Maybe you never arranged it at all—what's wrong with chocolate ice—and how could you arrange anyway."

"I did. And they're bringing the kids, too. I promise."

"When?"

"Soon."

"_Uh-huh_," George answered. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. "And by the way, suppose they do come, which I doubt, what in Merlin's name will we do with this thing afterwards?"

Fred dismissed the problem with a wave as he turned toward the box again. "Let's worry about that another time. Just think how much fun the little ones will have, I wonder if they can swim, guess we'll find out," he snickered. "I know they'll have a great time with this empty box because little kids go loony for large boxes."

George scowled again. It was Sunday—Sunday! A day of recreation and relaxation, his chance to escape from the grindstone, the break he _earned_ after six days in the joke shop, the kind of day he _needed_. For Merlin's sake! He could be listening to a Quidditch match on the wireless, drinking a few cold butterbeers, not hosting a barbecue! He could have slept in! He could have gone to the Leaky Cauldron. Had drinks with friends; maybe one friend in particular. But waking up at the crack of dawn and performing wand labor for six straight hours beneath a scalding sun made the plan seem. . . .

He paused. Who was he kidding? Had he not been talked into it, he would have definitely spent the day soaked in self-pity and not sweat, which was, in all honesty, the main reason he'd agreed to Fred's idea in the first place. But that wasn't the point. The point was, he didn't need this, or did he?

"I don't need this," he finally said aloud. "I really don't, you know."

"Yeah, you do," his twin replied. "You need to get on with living. Enjoy that which too many, too often, take for granted."

"Is that why you're doing this because I've taken too much for granted?"

"I'm not doing anything," answered Fred, gazing upward at the sun.

"Right, you haven't lifted one finger to help."

Fred gave his brother a sideways glance. "If I could, I would," he said in a sorrowful tone. "I miss my wand, I miss many things, actually."

George turned away from his brother's stare and wandered to a nearby tree to escape the sun, and Fred's intensity. He had, more than once, wondered why his mind hadn't conjured up a wand for Fred—what was a wizard without a wand.

'I'm sorry," said George, resting against the tree.

"Sorry for what?"

George pretended to be interested in a clump of dandelions, and bent down to pull the weed up from the lawn. The backyard was quite lovely now—better than it had a year ago when he purchased the parcel of overgrown weeds and the dilapidated house that set upon it—with the grass mowed, flowers planted, and the surrounding hedges manicured to perfection he could feel a little pride in his new home. It had taken several Sundays to whip the garden into shape, and Fred made sure he didn't spare any expense or slack on the job.

"That I didn't…I mean…that you're here without a wand," he said, admitting for the first time it was his fault.

Fred chuckled. "What do the dead need with wands?"

George shook his head a little. "But you would think if I can imagine you're here…walking…talking, and dressed identically as we used to each day, that I could imagine you had your wand also."

"Ah, yes," said Fred, trying to sound ominous. "You still think I'm in your head. A handsome figure of your imagination,"—he profiled his face and swung back his long, red hair— "haunting you out of jealousy for the life you still have. No…wait, I got it," his voice took on a low dark pitch. "I've come for you, George Weasley. Come join me in the afterlife."

He and George exploded into laughter. "When hell freezes over," said George quickly without thought. And the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started.

"Damnation isn't that bad," said Fred, looking back up at the sun. "It's not all fire and blistering pain, or at least I haven't experienced any burning sensation, like we were lead to believe. For me, there's just darkness and the recognizable voices of all the people I've hurt."

"Hurt!" George spat, "You never hurt anyone in your life…who says?"

"Colin Creevey," answered Fred. "We saw him slip back into the castle that night, remember? I even patted him on the back and shouted—go get'em, Creevey!"

"That's not your fault."

"Yeah, it was my fault, or I wouldn't hear his screams calling to me."

George couldn't think of any response. It sounded like hell, the worst possible hell. "But no fire," he managed to say after a full two minutes, looking up at the sun also.

"Not yet," said Fred. "However, I expect it will come if I don't. . . ." His gaze drifted to where the garden gnome had inched carefully up the side of pool, and had submerged his chubby face into the water. He smiled. And George, expecting his brother to finish the sentence, picked up a rock ready to shoo the gnome away.

"Don't do that," cautioned Fred. "He's just as hot as you are, and thirsty as well."

George stared at Fred, surprised by the compassion in his brother's voice.

"Everything we do in this life, Georgie, adds up for the next. Enough of that for now, we've got more to do before it's all done"

Fred pointed to an overflowing trash bin. "We'll need to clean that up," he said. "Don't want people thinking you're a pig or worse…that won't help."

"It won't work either," sighed George, turning the rock over in his hand wanting to crack open the head of the little gnome; now happily swimming in the pool.

Fred wasn't listening. He never did once his mind was made up. What a waste of time George couldn't help but think. "I've lost my mind," he mumbled. "Tomorrow…yes…tomorrow go get some help. Tell someone about these hallucinations."

Hallucinations? How long now had they begun? George remembered; he couldn't forget. It began with a tiny incident. Perhaps, if anyone ever asked, it was two tiny incidents; one that offset the other. The first incident was an announcement. Ron and Hermione had announced they were expecting their first child. It had been funny enough that his youngest brother beat him to alter, but George predicted the couple would wed sooner or later; however, he hadn't envisioned Ron becoming a father. Bill and Fleur, Percy and Audrey, Ron and Hermione, and even Ginny and Harry; they were all married and starting a family. While, more of his own choosing, George lingered indifference and in doubt. The second incident, closely linked, was a kiss he received from Angelina Johnson the day little Rose Weasley was born. "Congratulation, Uncle George," she playfully said. He remembered how bright and happy her face was upon hearing it was a girl. "It won't be long before the Weasley females outnumber the males. Bill's two, Percy's two, and little Rosie makes five...nicely done Ron." She laughed and without any warning kissed George more passionate than he had ever been kissed before. But, he had to stop thinking of that! He had to put her out of his thoughts, or at the very least think of her in a more platonic manner. _She was Fred's girl,_ he told himself and received no relief from the reminder. Nonetheless, her perfume still lingered in his nostrils, a mixture of spices and white lilies, reminisce of a fragrance found in Egypt. The fullness of her lips; moist and soft to the touch, and tasted of buttery smooth caramel. His mind descended deeper into an ocean that was entirely made of Angelina—he couldn't stop.

That next day, after the kiss, he awoke to sounds coming from the kitchen. Someone was in the flat. Mum, he thought. She's checking to see if there was enough food in the refrigerator. He rolled over onto his back, kicked the blanket away, stretched his long limbs then got out of bed and walked to the kitchen. He felt better on this morning than he had in a long time. Sunshine poured into the dingy flat, and there was warmth inside him, a glimmer of possibility. "Mum, leave the dirty dishes alone," he yelled, "and I'll buy food, I promise!" As he walked crossed the living room floor, kicking from his path discarded clothes, butterbeer bottoms, and muggle magazines of half clad girls, then down a cluttered hallway of product boxes and order forms, and froze at the kitchen door; his lips ready to repeat, _leave the dishes alone, Mum_.

"Finally!" shouted a familiar voice. "It's 10:30! Were you planning to sleep the entire morning?"

George shut his eyes and focused again. But there he was—as whole as any living being could—Fred, and wearing orange and lime green polka dot pajamas.

"Lazy lay-about," he added.

"Fred!"

"George!" he faked a look of excitement.

"Fred…is…it…really you?"

"No, I'm Mad-Eye, you idiot, of course it's really me."

George spun in a circle. "I'm seeing dead people," he said, pressing the palm of his hands against his eyes and pounded them in between violent rubs.

Fred sped next to his brother, pushed him out of the way then peered down the hallway. "You're fooling, where are they? I don't see any dead people."

His back against the kitchen wall, George said in a tremble voice. "I'm still asleep…dreaming…that's it," saying this more to himself than to Fred who was standing so close he could see unshaven whiskers on his brother's face and neck.

Fred laughed. "Blimey, George, since when have you been afraid of dead people. Pull yourself together, man, and get some breakfast on the table. I'm starving."

'_I'm starving_.' George smirked at the memory of that morning. Eight years had passed without his twin—eight years and not a single word, or ghostly appearance—eight years cold underground, and him cold above ground. He glanced over to where Fred stood wanting the trash sorted into a neat bundle. It wasn't as wonderful having Fred back as George once imagined. All the fun they used to have, the childish things they did together; their partnership in crime. Not anymore. This new and improved Fred, labeled by George as such, was mature and responsible. He was making plans for the future, and insisted George purchase a house, decorate the rooms, and fix-up the yard. He wanted George to concentrate less of the joke shop and more on the family. Attend the birthday parties of their nieces and nephews, take them on outing; spend some time getting to know who they are and the things they like. But there was a problem. How was anyone to know he'd planned a family gathering, or purchased a swimming pool for his nieces and nephews, if he hadn't invited them? Fred assured him over and over again they would come. Still, a ping of guilt jabbed him in the chest.

"Oy Fred," he called

"Yea, George."

"There's something I need to tell you."

"Go on then."

"You remember the morning you showed up?"

"Showed up where, and which morning was this?"

"You know, that first morning at the flat, from the place you said voices call out to you."

Fred grimaced. "Oh yeah, I know the place like back my hand. What about my return?"

Guilt jabbed once more and courage teetered on the edge of abandonment. "Right," George mumbled, "return."

"C'mon, spit it out," demanded Fred. "Grown weary of me already?"

"No."

"Somethings got your wand knotted. You stand round talking to yourself, muttering, and groaning about only Merlin knows what."

"Me…talking to myself…are you daft? Bloody right, I'm talking to myself because you're dead, and no one can see you but me. Sorry, my mistake, I'm the bloody mental one."

"There you go, George, don't hold back," beamed Fred. "The next door neighbors won't care, they've been whispering about you behind your back anyway."

"It's not funny…what? Whispering about me…what for?"

"A single man, living all alone, and no obvious girlfriend. Muggles talk about that kind of stuff, but we're fixing that."

George snorted. He looked over the chest high hedges and saw no one was looking back at him. "Oh, that's just grand," he snapped. "It wasn't my idea to let go of the flat. I didn't want to buy this stupid house, what the bloody hell did I need with a three bedroom house? The flat was perfectly fine."

"Perfectly fine for a man not entertaining the notion of a wife and kids," said Fred in an astute manner. "It's perfect for Lee Jordan, good man that Lee."

"You really are deft, I'm not entertaining the notion either."

"Liar"

"Did you hit your head on something when you were stumbling around in the dark? I never said I wanted to get marry and have kids."

"You're right, you haven't. Fancy you'll be like Charlie then?

George shot Fred snobbish look. "Sure, why not? Charlie got a fairly good life."

"Yeah, he does," said Fred, then sucked air through his teeth. "You got a point there, but Charlie doesn't like women and you _do_, so go fancy something else."

George looked flabbergasted. "What?…Charlie doesn't like…what are you saying?"

"I'll tell you what I'm saying. Those excuses you toss about in that brain of yours for feeling sorry for yourself aren't fooling me. See here mate, you're thirty years old and not getting any younger by anyone's standards. Take Ron for example—"

George groaned and rolled his eyes. "OUCH!"

A clump a dirt, mixed with dandelion stems, collided with side of George's neck and the tree behind to him.

"That's right, I said Ron," snapped Fred, brushing the dirt off his hands. "I watched him the other morning making breakfast for Rosie, heartwarming to see the way that little girl looks at her dad, as if he was the greatest thing since ice lollies. Ron's got it right. Love and be loved in return, and with my guidance you'll get it right, too."

George turned his back on Fred and kicked the tree, as if it hit him with the clump of dirt. "Oh, don't give me that rubbish again," he said rather spiteful, but he looked scared.

"What are you afraid of, Georgie?"

"I'm not afraid."

"Oh yeah, then go on, you wanted to tell me something."

"Nothing," said George in low, barely audible, voice. "I don't need. . . ."

Fred glanced upward at the sun again; it was pass noon. "It's much more than nothing," he said, "and you did need me, but not anymore. "Then let me shine some light on it for you…Angelina will never fully give herself to a man, wizard or not, who doesn't want the same things she wants. Aren't you going to tell me that you've fallen in-love with her, and that one kiss lead to the best experience of your life?"

George heart was pounded in his throat; he could feel the force of its beats in his ear.

"She deserve a strong man, one capable of building a home, and providing her with children…are you that man?

George shifted in his skin; the memory the kiss made his stomach quiver with butterflies. A shaky hand removed the handkerchief and mopped his sweaty brow. "No, I—," his voice cracked, and he hid his face behind the handkerchief. "I—I don't know—I don't know what you're going on about."

"You're not a dumb bloke, and neither am I," said Fred grimly

"Never said I was or that you are."

"Look, it's fine, it's grand beyond measure, really," said Fred in rush to make his point. "Let go of the guilt, it's only hurting you. But, listen, when the sun goes down tonight, I won't be here again. You'll be on your own to win her over. I came back to give you a good head start. My penance will be served, and I can move on."

George turned to face his brother. "It was just that once," he said with an enormous amount of shame. "You don't have to leave, she doesn't want me, _stay_."

"Wrong again," said Fred, struggling to conceal a sudden attack of sadness, "but, if you say so."

Before he could rally his thoughts in proper order, George shouted. "SHE DOESN'T! IF ANYTHING SHE WISHES I WAS YOU, IT'S MY FACE SHE SEES, NOT ME! I'M NOT THE ONE, SO WHY EVEN COMPETE!"

Fred's expression hardened, and he shouted back. "YOU GO FOR IT BECAUSE YOU'RE A BETTER MAN THAN I EVER WAS, AND SHE KNOWS IT! YOU'RE THE KINDHEARTED ONE—THE CHARITABLE ONE—THE DEVOTED ONE! THE ONE WHO'LL NOT BLOW THIS CHANCE HE'S BEEN GIVEN TO HAVE A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN LIKE ANGELINA AT HIS SIDE, AND I AM THE ONE WHO WON'T LET YOU!"

Silent fell between them. The only sound came from a barking dog some distances away and the splashing of water, and a smile returned to Fred's face upon seeing that their shouting had not frightened the gnome away. "He's having jolly 'ole time," he said and nodded toward the pool. "So, are you going to piss-away more precious time resisting my help?"

"I can imagine what _everyone_ will say, and the nasty looks I'll get from dating my dead brother's girl," answered George, looking beyond the swimming pool into his mind's eye. "I can hear Mum and Dad now."

"No nasty looks, I can guarantee it," said Fred with more empathy than George had ever thought possible. "However, I'm sure our parents will have something to say, and it'll be…_'Well done, that George was always the SMART ONE.' _"

They both stood smiling at the other.

Fred pointed at the trash bin again. "It won't be long now, and our—sorry, I mean—your guest will be apparating in soon. You might want to—"

"How do you know?" asked George, looking frighten again. "I never sent out invitations, never made any attempts to—"

"Trust me, they'll come." Fred winked. "I hope Angelina wears red, she looks great in red, and she'll be impressed with you, the house, the yard, and our family."

George smiled, not in just an outward appearance of joy, but inward also; the unique quality of being just one.

"Now, for the check list," said Fred, pretending to perform a drum-roll. "You did remember the strawberry ice cream. Victoire's allergic to chocolate, and that reminds me, put extra cushioning charms on a chair for Fleur, she's pregnant, and I'm pretty sure Ginny is too, although she haven't told Harry yet, hard chairs won't do for them to sit on, make that three chairs, Mum needs a soft spot, too, poor old woman. Oh, and the spicy bangers are for Ron and Dad, so make sure none of the little kids eat any, don't want to burn their little tongues off, and a raw steak for Bill, but cook Percy's and don't char his steak on purpose, that would be funny but not very gracious as a host, and Hermione's a vegetarian, that means no meat in anything, and don't forget to praise Audrey's new hair style, no matter how dreadful it looks, and bring the wildfire whiz-bangs up from the cellar, _and_—"

George laughed at his brother then whisked his wand happily in the air. "Yeah—yeah—yeah—I'm on it," he interrupted, "_and_ I'm taking care of the trash bin."

The clock on the wall, a practical anniversary gift from Mrs. Molly Weasley, voiced—in a rather mindful tone—that it was half-past-one which made the excitement of the Potter's two young sons just that more difficult to contain. The eldest ran circles around his father, begging that they hurry or all the fun would be over while the youngest simply imitated him.

"Ginny, are you almost ready?" Harry called from the bottom of stairs up to his wife. "Our sons are wearing holes in the rug, and pretty soon the clock will be yelling at us."

"Coming," she answered, descending the stairs.

She stopped halfway down. "Harry," she said, looking nervous. "I not sure we should go, I'm a little worried about all of this."

"Why?" said Harry. "James, down off the walls, you fell the last time, sweetheart, and hurt your bottom, and yes Al, we're going bye-bye."

Ginny sighed, ignoring that one son was _literally_ climbing the walls.

"What's wrong, Gin?"

"I saw George yesterday," she said. "I stopped by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes because Mum's been complaining she hasn't seen his new house, and there's an anti-Apparation charm, making it impossible to found out what he needs done there."

Harry shrugged. "George's a bachelor and needs a certain amount of privacy, but we have an invitation now, so what the problem?"

"That's the point I'm coming to," she said, and instantly began wring her hands. "Well, like I said, I stopped by the joke shop, and before I reached his office I heard him…I heard…." She paused.

Harry watched her, his eyes shifting from her face to her hands, but he remained focused. He could only assume she was searching for a way to explain what she heard, and he silently prayed it wasn't anything obscene.

"You know how much I adore George." She waited, and Harry nodded his agreement then she went on. "I think, he may be ill," she said, but whispered. "I overheard him having a conversation with…with…Fred."

Harry chuckled slightly. "Fantastic," he cleared his throat. "So, what did Fred have to say for himself?"

"That sarcastic humor is what the muggles call being an arse-hole," she said, placing her hands on her hips, and looking more and more like her mother by the glare on her face.

"Sorry, love, I meant no harm," said Harry sincerely. "I wouldn't go that far and accuse him of being a nutter, and you do mean _ill_ as in mentally, right?"

Ginny's emotional state looked on the brink of crashing, so she took her time answering.

"Uncle George isn't sick, is he, Daddy?" asked James, dangling midway between the floor and ceiling. Harry reached and set his eldest back on his feet.

"No, sweetheart…he's _not…M_um's talking about someone else."

"Alright, nutter is a harsh term," said Ginny, lowering her voice while James went back to getting a good grip on the wall. "George was always the _sweet one…_when he had to be sweet, that is_…_and Merlin knows he's gone through some difficult changes."

Harry simply nodded; his eyes darting from wife to son

"I pretended I didn't overhear him, but the owl we received this morning, inviting us and the children over, worries me. The handwriting is clearly Fred's. I would _recognize_ it anywhere. So, let's say he's a tad bit messed up, for lack of a better word, what will we be walking into?"

Harry held his hand out for Ginny to take; she hadn't move an inch more down the stairs. He could see it was a serious matter in her opinion and he dare not say the wrong thing; she looked ready for tears.

"Gin," he began, "George is fine, and believe me when I say it doesn't matter how brave or clever we are, trauma always leaves a scar. It follows us home. It changes our lives. Trauma messes everybody up, but maybe that's the point. The pain, fear, and all the uncertainty is what keeps us moving forward. It's what pushes us. Maybe we need to get a little messed up before we can step up. It'll work-out in the end. C'mon, you and Mum can see when we get there."

She kindly nodded and reached for Harry's hand. "Right-o," she said with a fair amount of relief. "You take James, and I'll carry Albus. James remember to hold your breath when Daddy apparates, okay?"

James took a deep breath before his father could lift him off the wall, and Ginny cradled Albus on her hip.

"Let's go have fun with Uncle George," said Harry, kissing his wife on the cheek as they all vanished on the spot.

The End.

I really hope you enjoyed my first attempt at writing fan fiction. Reviews are welcomed, and any suggestions are appreciated.


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